The Case of Sherlock Holmes
by itsusuallysubtext
Summary: John and Sherlock in their separate cases, one trying to make sense of the past, the other trying to get back to it. Follows them both to their eventual reunion and first case together again. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

_His friend's hand stretches out towards him. He raises his own hand. His friend's arms lift out to either side. He shouts. His friend falls._

...

He sat with his morning coffee and tried to forget about his dream. Again. He didn't read the paper. He didn't visit Mrs Hudson on his way to get the mail. He didn't go outside, instead climbed back up the stairs, leaning on his cane, before sitting back in his chair.

One year on exactly. Life just passed him by.

If you were to walk into 221B right now you would boxes stacked high, filled with things that were no longer his. Much like the first time he walked into the flat. You would find the bathroom medicine cabinet open on both sides, a nice view of the medications and cough tablets and sleeping pills. The kitchen, filled with kitchen things rather than cluttered with science equipment, still had a strange and foreign emptiness.

There was a knock on the door. Mrs Hudson peeked around the corner. "How are you, John?"

"Terrible." Is what he didn't say. "Not too bad." Is what he did.

She looked at him with sympathy and discernment. "You know you don't have to lie to me to make me feel better." He looked up apologetically, but she gave him a small, sad smile and said "We both feel terrible today, so we may as well feel terrible together." He couldn't disagree. "How are your dreams going?"

"They're not." John joked bitterly, and then wondered if it was something he shouldn't joke about. "They're really about the same as ever." He held the coffee mug in his hand and watched the surface ripple as he felt his fist tremor.

He'd dreamt of it a lot, like his dreams of the army. But these were silent dreams, empty and cold. No roaring machines or racing around, no fire and no one aiming a gun at him. No one attacking him at all. Just the inability to speak or move, just watching. Absolutely everything is silent, even through the fall, even, most times, when the body hits the ground, all is still and silent. And nobody does a thing. That's the worst part, nobody even moves.

John and Mrs Hudson talked for a while. She did talk try to about him, to remember him well, because it was important to – especially today. But she could see John withdrawing into himself a bit, and dropped it. Instead she made small talk about the papers that John hadn't read, about politicians he didn't care about, about a daytime tv celebrity who he had only seen once or twice. Then he thanked her for the tea and went back upstairs.

* * *

"Hello?"

"_Mrs Hudson. How is he?"_ The voice said, wreathed with a grave but grandeur tone.

"Much the same as ever, I'm afraid. Worse today, as you can expect."

"_Yes. Has he gone out at all?"_

"Not for a few days, now. Only to get groceries."

"_Mm. Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Make sure he's not alone."_

"I can keep him company but I'm afraid his loneliness isn't due to lack of_ my _company. I hope you understand that. It's his personal battle, poor man. This can't be fixed by either of us by ourselves."

"_No."_ He was silent for a moment. _"Thank you."_

He hung up the phone and typed a new message. He stood for a moment, leaning against the wall, his short round glass in his hand. He pressed 'send' and pinched between his eyes. _Oh, brother. _He thought. _What will you do?_

* * *

_His friend raises his hand to him. He has to do it. His friend shouts his name. That can't matter now. A long way down. Are the calculations right? Of course they are. It is a rush of air, then a rush of movement, then lifelessness. His friend reaches for his wrist. His own arm remains limp, his body unresponsive as he is turned to face him. It is all he can do to keep his eyes open, his chest still. His friend's face breaks as he sees the blood, the dead eyes, and he leans weakly into the crowd. He watches. His friend falls._

_..._

The phone buzzed on the table beside him and he was pulled out of thought for a moment. He welcomed the distraction and picked it up with one swift grab, glanced over the message and tossed the phone back on the table beside him, sighing.

* * *

John looked at the calendar. Damn. Another meeting tomorrow. He had to go this time, no putting it off. He just grabbed his jacket, got in the taxi and went.

"Okay, here I am again. This is supposed to be good for… Grieving. The therapist thinks so, at least." He sniffed and stood straight, feeling a little awkward, his hands making fists. "Not quite sure what to say. I haven't spoken to Greg recently, or Lestrade, as you may remember him, you clot. So I don't have any interesting cases to tell you about. I'm afraid I'm going to be boring." He stopped and looked around, but there was nobody else there, just headstones as far as he could see.

"I hope you don't mind, I didn't get you flowers. I didn't think you'd fancy them. But I, uh. Well I found this in a 2 dollar shop." He brought a tiny replica of a skull out of his pocket. "It's, ah…" He snickered self-consciously. "It's stupid but I'm going to put it here anyway." He leant forward quickly, embarrassed, and placed it on the grass in front of the black headstone. And suddenly his eyes began to sting and his throat began to tighten. _Damn it_. He was supposed to do this properly, not supposed to lose it again. "I would say I hope you're liking it up there but I really can't imagine it." He said quickly, his breath sharpening in his lungs. "And I don't want you to be there so I'm sorry but I hope you're having a terrible time." He nodded at the headstone and walked swiftly away before his eyes got any redder.

* * *

Another text. _I'm assuming you're still alive, brother, but I would appreciate knowing your location._

He let his breath out slowly as he stretched his legs to the end of the couch, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He was losing control. Again. He didn't search for problems. He didn't reply to Mycroft. He didn't go outside, instead breathed in the unfamiliar air of another empty flat. He didn't move for over an hour.

One year on exactly. Nothing was familiar, nothing stayed the same.

* * *

**Hello! Hope you liked the first chapter. It's a LOT shorter than the others will be, because it's really just an introduction to it all, and less happens in this chapter. It's my first proper go at writing fanfiction (at least, it's the only one that's got as far as it has!), and I'm thinking of editing this a bit later, because I think there are things I can fix up. But I would love any kind of feedback that you'd be so lovely to give me. :)**

**x**


	2. Chapter 2

_If you want to find me, trace my phone. I'm sure you could get someone to do it._ Sherlock wasn't feeling particularly compliant today.

When a day was especially bad, he claimed himself sovereign. Autonomous. Self-governing. On an average day he could face up to the fact that he was really just alone. Not just unaccompanied or independent – alone.

Most of the time his thoughts were controllable, and he could lock things in boxes in cupboards in rooms hidden in dark, lonesome corridors in his mind. But he never had enough distractions and sometimes, when he wasn't concentrating, he was led to those dark halls and into those rooms. Or take a wrong turn when searching for something else entirely. He would have to run back out, his mind leaping from one thought to the other, with barely enough time to get proper footing.

_The hand. The shout. The rush of air. _Stop. _Hand on his wrist. Empty face. _Don't need that now. _Never realised that would be the last touch, the last communication. _Shut up. _One-sided. _Where was that box he was looking for? _His friend leans into the crowd. _The walls and floor shifted and turned in his mind – he couldn't see where he was going. _"Sherl…" Too injured to finish his speech._ Go away! There, just behind that door. _Okay, so this is a bad day, it seems._

He couldn't go out and solve cases, he couldn't walk around London's heart. He slumped in his chairs and forgot to eat. A lot of time was spent watching people, cars and buses going past his window. He tried to keep his mind active; deducing what he could from what he was able to observe which, though surpassing that of any ordinary person, was not adequate.

He captured flies and occasionally bees and watched them try to escape, watched how their minute brains worked. He preferred the bees.

He was locked in a stare, watching the striped creatures fly around and around and around in different make-shift glass and clear plastic enclosures, with all sorts of equipment connected and scattered around them. Then in one sudden movement he sat up sharply.

"Look at this." He said quickly, the gears in his mind whirring. He rattled off a number of observations, scientific facts and conclusions, listing his own discoveries with great vigour, as if someone was listening. When he was finished, he waited. There were no footsteps. For a moment he was lost, in an unfamiliar place, but just as quickly he remembered, and turned his downcast gaze back to the bees. He reprimanded his own foolishness.

There was a knock at the door and he looked up, wondering who it could be, and walked over. He looked through the peep-hole cautiously and opened it.

"Molly."

"Hi." She stood, a little awkwardly. "Can I..?" She gestured to the flat behind him. The wind was cold outside and she only had alight jacket.

"Oh." He said quietly, shifting back inside to let her pass. She walked in and sighed, looking around, and back to him.

"How are you doing?" She asked politely, her eyes kind and her face rosy from the cold.

"Fine." He said simply, moving back to his bees.

"It's been a while since I've seen you. Things have been busy." She walked over to the bees, buzzing around their enclosure. She sat down lightly on the couch, leaning in, her nose close to the glass. Sherlock remained standing a couple of metres back.

"Some scientists say that bees can't really fly." She said. He gave her a dubious glance. "Well I mean they can, of course, but technically they're 'aerodynamically incompatible with flight'. Their bodies are too heavy for their wings to carry them. They would have insufficient lift to be able to fly."

"I'd hardly call them scientists, if they can't observe the basic event of a bee actually flying. That bee there-"

"I'm not finished yet." She smiled wittily. "I looked it up and it's just that they can't glide, like a plane or a bird. Plus, the guy who wrote it was drunk at the time. I just wanted to see your reaction." She received a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smirk in return.

Sherlock wondered who would have told her that information. _Recited information_ _but with detailed understanding. Recently gained a knowledgeable friend? _He glanced over her. _Changed hair, taller stance, more care with her choice of clothes…_

"You've met someone?"

"What- Well, yes." She said, surprised. "Not a bee, though." She joked clumsily.

"No, someone with knowledge of either aviation or _very_ detailed trivia."

"Yes, the first one. He's a pilot." She smiled. She tossed up between telling all to Sherlock, or not saying a word. He probably didn't care but she secretly liked having one up on him. Letting him be curious. She tapped a finger on the glass, watching a bee. "What are they for?" She asked.

"Observing."

"Don't get out much, do you?" She didn't look at him, but he frowned in reply, not entirely sure what to say to that.

"Well… No." He said simply. "I'm hiding from almost everyone I know and don't know, secretly tracking down criminals one by one and handing them over to my brother for information about Moriarty's ring. It's not exactly an extravagant lifestyle."

Molly stared at him for a second, and he returned the gaze unemotionally. Noticing her expression, he frowned. _Did I upset her? _He was out of practice at being human. He wondered exactly how long it was since she last visited.

"What's the date?" He asked unassumingly. Her expression changed to a strange, unrecognisable mixture of fear, guilt and evasion.

"Uh… I'm not… sure." She fumbled with the bag over her shoulder, looking down uncomfortably. He didn't remember and she didn't want to tell him. "I… I think it's-"

A muffled tune sounded from her bag, and she jumped, took her phone out and held it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"_Ms. Hooper." _She heard the now familiar voice and walked out of the room.

"Speaking, yes."

"_I need to speak with you."_

"Okay, when?"

"_Now. Would you be willing to pay my brother a visit soon?"_

"I'm at his flat now, actually." She spoke quietly.

"_Oh."_ The voice paused. _"Good."_

"Why?"

"_Time appears to be taking a toll rather than healing for John. Especially today. I wasn't sure of the effect it would have on Sherlock."_

"I see. Well I can visit John, too. I was planning to, actually."

"_Good. Notify me when you do. And if you could, let me know of Sherlock's… Habits. If he has any substances lying around, and the like."_

"Right. Ok."

"_Good day, Ms Hooper. And thank you. Oh, and if he asks for the date, don't tell him."_

"A-alright. Bye."

Mycroft flicked his finger and ended the call. He sat for a moment, his chin on his knuckles, wondering if he himself should be running these errands. It was his brother, after all.

But, he was probably more inclined to open up to a comfortable acquaintance, and he seemed to be growing some kind of fondness for Ms Hooper. Besides, she was the kinder of the two.

"Have you been to the graveyard yet?" The smooth, steady voice never seemed to break the silence, but instead part it, step into it, fill it.

"Yes, I went this morning." John answered. She gave him a sideways glance.

"Our last meeting was more than three weeks ago." She stated. "John, this is good for you, but I don't want you to do things just because I say. You have to want it yourself." She sighed, putting her pen down and resting her forearms on her knees.

"I know. I've just… It just took me a while to go."

"Why did it take you so long, do you think?"

"I think I was worried he'd hear me."

"Is that a bad thing? Don't you want him to hear you?" John shrugged in response, shaking his head slightly. "Are you scared of something?"

"No, no… I just want him to reply."

"He's not going to, John." Her reply was sudden and he raised his head, surprised. "I'm sorry, but he won't reply in the way you want him to." John wanted to leave, he wanted to sink into himself and not hear this. "It's very healthy to grieve and everything you've been through is very understandable. But I need you to want to come to terms with it before I can start to help you live with it. Denial is… It's painful. And it's not good for you."

There was a silence between them. "Maybe you should think of letting go physically and it might help you let go mentally and emotionally." John looked at her.

"You mean his belongings?"

"The ones you feel comfortable with."

Molly walked up to the black door and rang the bell. She waited, rang it again, and waited some more. There was no answer. She debated with herself whether she should leave a note or a phone message, when a taxi pulled up and John got out.

"Oh, hello." She said, smiling.

"Hi. Sorry I was, uh, out." He didn't return the smile – probably didn't notice it.

"No it's fine I only just got here. I was just wondering how you're doing."

"Oh, thanks." He glanced at his feet for a moment before he gestured her inside. "I'll put the kettle on?"

…

"They'll go to a good home, I suppose."

"Yes…"

"Whatever you think."

John shuffled through a box. "I'll give away a few things and see. It would be good to have some space." He lifted the top box off and looked in the second. "I've never seen most of this stuff. It's all from before I lived here." He pulled out an old, tattered paper folder with the word 'EXPERIMENTS' written in childish handwriting over the cover. "Oh my god." He muttered. He opened it and flicked through the sheets of paper, scrawled all over with different experiments and observations. Molly looked over his shoulder. "How long it takes a mother to notice her child is missing." John read.

"His poor parents."

"Studies on Mycroft?"

"Oh my god, 'rate of worry.' 'Paper-cut', 'grazed knee' … 'death'!"

They both read what they could of the childish experiment, faking his own death to measure how much his brother cared, and suddenly it was no longer a harmless book of childish things but a sad reminder of everything John wished to have back. Molly looked at John and saw him suddenly frown at the paper.

"He used a rubber ball to stop his pulse?" He said.

"What?" Molly nearly shouted, the surprise heightening her voice. "What do you mean?" _Oh god no please. You can't know now._

"H-here. In the experiment." He pointed to the list of steps, confused at her outburst. "He put a small rubber ball underneath his arm so that when Mycroft checked his wrist there would be nothing there." Molly stared at him. Partly in surprise and partly in gladness that it didn't click. "I didn't know that trick worked."

"I-I don't know. I suppose, maybe." She said as John put the folder back in the box, a distant expression on his face. Molly tried to change the subject quickly. "Yes, I think it would be good to have some space in here." She said. "Give some of this stuff away to a good home."

"Mm."

"Kind of like little parts of his life scattered around London."

"It's them…" Sherlock muttered, his face rising from the file in front of him as he drew his mind inward, his eyes flicking with his thoughts.

"Who?"

"I need a file." He said bluntly, without answering Mycroft's question, who sighed in reply.

"What file?"

"The Russian siblings."

"I'm sure we can find any information you need."

"No, I need a file from the flat." He rested his forearms flat on his knees, his fingers twitching. Mycroft looked up at him, the answer plain on his face. "I know it's a risk but nobody else knows where to find it. Besides, I don't want other people messing with my things."

"You can't be precious about that, now." He said. "It can't be done."

"Getting that information would mean a few months less work. And, if my memory is correct, the lives or one or two of your secret service."

"Are they dangerous people?"

"They're a pair of all-rounders, hired help for criminals. Probably brother and sister but they disposed of all their records, so it's not confirmed. I was following their trail for some time – they did everything from burglary to assassination. Hardly ever slipped up." He leant forward and rested his chin on his knuckles. "I caught them and had them at gunpoint. They had no idea who I was. So I said I wanted to hire them, and they gave me some details. Contacts and conditions, only slight but enough. They of course escaped from the police, and were never seen again."

"The police would have their records then."

"They escaped on the way to an interrogation site. The police couldn't even get their aliases themselves." A flash of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "There are no records of them anywhere."

"Except in your flat." Mycroft said, giving an exasperated sigh.

"Except in the flat." Sherlock repeated quietly.

**Ok so here is the second chapter. I hope you like it! I'm sort of slowly re-setting the scene, I suppose you could call it, so the actual investigation stuff with John will start next chapter. I was thinking of rewriting this and chapter one but I'm going to leave it (partly because I'm lazy) and just keep going and seeing where it ends up. Anyway I'll stop blabbering now.**

**If you liked it, you can follow of course, and any reviews are very much appreciated. x**


	3. Chapter 3

A week had gone by since John last visited the graveyard and since his latest therapist appointment. He had given away a few items, to charities, mostly. But it was difficult to know where to start. He still had most of the science equipment he'd stopped Mrs Hudson from giving away, but he thought he should probably give those away too. They would be better use to some kind of school.

But today he left the flat at 10:00 am to go and visit his sister. He locked the door and stepped out onto the street, hailing a cab. He got in and told him the address. They drove for a while, and John caught the cabbie looking in the rear view mirror at him a couple of times. He obviously recognised him but John was glad he didn't say anything.

"Do you mind if I put on the radio?" He asked John.

"No, it's fine."

"Thanks, mate." He flicked it onto a news station, halfway through a story. John only half-listened, but he sat forward when the woman said "it seems as though previously indiscernible and immaculate criminals are becoming sloppy, and the crime prosecution rate throughout Britain and other parts of the world are growing steadily in number.

"Criminal rings around the world are reported to be systematically derailed, and many criminals near the top are being caught by government officials. When asked, spokespeople for the government expressed the same confusion. 'We can't find anything to explain it.' A man said. 'It is possibly just a bad year for the criminal industry.'" The cabbie laughed softly at the politician's attempt at humour. John leaned back in his seat and stared out the window. He couldn't help tossing the idea around in his head, but the longer he let it linger, the more urgent an issue it seemed to become, and within minutes of hearing the report, he leant forward and spoke to the taxi driver.

"Sorry, change of plan. Can you take me to Scotland Yard?"

…

The taxi pulled up to the tall, glassy building and John got out and paid the driver. He walked up to the doors and walked in, eager but not knowing where to go. Automatically, he began to walk to Lestrade's office but stopped himself. He wasn't there anymore.

"Hi, sorry, I'm looking for Greg Lestrade." He asked the woman at the desk. He paused before saying his name, not sure what they would address him as now. She gave him a confused but wary look, as if she knew who he was talking about but wasn't sure if she should let him know.

"DS Lestrade?" She asked.

"I think so. He, um, was a DI." She nodded. John cleared his throat and looked down.

"Would he be expecting you?"

"No, but he's a personal friend."

She sent someone to take John to him. When Lestrade saw him, he looked surprised and a little concerned. He walked him over to a quiet hallway.

"How are you?" He asked.

"I'm fine. But listen, I wanted to ask about a report I heard on the news." He was unsure of how to say what he wanted to, but saw recognition in Lestrade's eyes, and spoke more confidently. "It's a long shot but I wanted to make sure it wasn't to do with Moriarty." Lestrade frowned.

"Moriarty?"

"Well he disappeared and now all the crime rings are falling apart."

"Do you think it's Moriarty's doing?" The name was strange on both of their tongues, both familiar and covered in a distant, unknown haze.

"I think it could be Sherlock's." Lestrade took a step back and looked at him, startled. John backtracked, all too aware of sounding like a lunatic. "I mean at St Bart's. Something could have happened then."

"He, what, planned something?" Lestrade asked as John rubbed his forehead.

"Something like that."

"I… I don't see what he could have done by-"

"He let himself be killed. He wouldn't have done that unless it was for some purpose that he saw as _much_ greater than himself."

"You mean that his death could have somehow caused the criminals to be caught?"

"I don't know, but I think it was for something like that. He wouldn't have done it. He just wouldn't. Not unless he had to. And it's too much of a coincidence." John said. Lestrade stood still with his hand on his chin, looking lost in his own thoughts. "I know we've been through this before but I think if we looked into it a bit more we'd find new information. I'm not saying a huge investigation." Lestrade draw his hand over his face, pinching his mouth. "Greg are you listening?" Immediately, he strode over to his desk, opening the lowest drawer and rummaging through it. He took out a blank folder and put it on the desk's surface, facing John.

"It's not much." He said, folding his arms. John picked it up and opened it.

"You've already started." He said, looking up with a little optimism in his eyes.

"Like I said, there's not much to work with. If it was anyone else it would have been an open and shut suicide case."

"It's enough."

"Have you got anything?" He asked, and John nodded. He had hardly thought about it but he realised that Lestrade would still feel some kind of guilt over it. He saw the eagerness in his eyes and remembered how utterly silent and still he was when he heard the news, how his eyes glazed over and his mouth turned down in what initially seemed like disbelief in Sherlock, but may have been disbelief at his own actions. He did, after all, make the arrest.

"I'll be back in half an hour."

* * *

"I've been assured that he won't be home for over two hours. He's gone to visit his sister."

"When did he leave?"

"A little under an hour ago."

"Good."

"You still have your key?"

Within a moment Sherlock snatched from an inside pocket of his coat and inserted into the lock. They heard the click and walked in slowly, Mycroft first, to check.

The flat was different. It smelt different. Different things were cluttered on the tables and different equipment in the kitchen. It felt very strange. Sherlock had only a moment to take everything in again, what objects were frequently moved, what John didn't touch, where he spent most of the day, what he usually ate. He rushed into his old bedroom and shuffled through the papers. The bedroom had hardly been touched; only the bed was un-made, looking cold and hardly comforting.

…

John walked down Baker st with his head and his eyes turned down, watching the footpath pass by underneath him. He heard only the steady clap of his cane on the concrete, his mind was racing faster than it had in a while. He shifted his cane in his hand. Then out of nowhere a young man walked into him from a taxi that had pulled up to his right and it fell to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry." The man said, startled. "I didn't see you."

"It's ok, don't worry about it." John said, beginning to reach down to his cane. The young man apologised again, picking it up for him. As he saw his face, an eagerness which was foreign to John lit up in his eyes.

"Sorry, but…" He smiled a little. "Are you John Watson?"

John stared at him blankly, not making a single movement or sound. His forehead was creased and his eyes distant, and, for a moment, he seemed completely detached from reality. "Yes." He said finally, looking down. "I am, yes."

"I, um…" The man frowned a little, not sure about what he should say and what he shouldn't. "I was a fan of your blog." He said. "I don't want to be a bother or anything but I want you to know I never believed the newspapers." John's face softened. "I saw him once, my sister's a police officer, and he was rattling off things at a hundred miles per hour." He smiled. "It was for real, I believe."

"Well… Thank you." John said, genuinely. His lips turned upwards politely and somehow it gave him an extra burst of energy as he walked past the next few houses, towards his own flat.

…

"I have it. We can go."

Mycroft nodded and checked the window, before calling his brother's name, with surprise and concern. "He's outside." He said simply, looking at Sherlock, who returned the look with a wild, dazed stare. Mycroft walked out to the stairs and heard John juggling his keys outside. When he returned to the room, it was empty. He took a few swift glances around the corners, but saw and heard nothing.

John walked up the stairs. He stopped at the top, looking at Mycroft questioningly, who returned the look with similar confusion, and was silent for a moment, his mouth open to speak. Finally he moved, his head rolling down and up again, with a friendlier expression gracing his face.

"I was just passing. Checked in to see how you were." He smiled kindly, the feeling unfamiliar. His smiles were so often intimidating or condescending that a genuine one seemed hardest to form.

"Well, I'm… I'm fine." John frowned. "Thanks." He stood dumbly, his hands by his side. "You look like you've seen a ghost." Mycroft glimpsed himself in the mirror, seeing the shocked expression still lingering on his face. _I suppose I have. _He cleared his throat. "Is there a… Reason? That you're already in here?" Mycroft thought fast for an answer but John was already answering himself. "I suppose that's a stupid question with you, isn't it?" Mycroft made no reply. "So I can make some tea or coffee, if-"

"No, that won't be necessary. I have a meeting shortly." Mycroft lied.

"Ok, well, I just came to pick this up." John shuffled through some piles of paper and found an unmarked folder. He shuffled it around in his hands, and went to leave. Mycroft followed, pocketing the spare set of keys that lay on the table.

When he was sure John had left, Sherlock came out from hiding. He stood at the doorway into the room, feeling as if it was tugging him from the chest. He took measured steps around the room, touching objects with the tips of his fingers. He breathed slowly, thought slowly, his eyelids lowered slowly over his eyes every few moments, as the flat seeped back into him. It filled him and warmed him with its familiarity. _Is this what people call home?_

Mycroft tapped lightly on the door below. He had walked the opposite way to John, and then, waiting until John's cab was far enough away, came back. He unlocked the door and let a muted Sherlock step out and into his car.

"You're awfully quiet." Mycroft mused, watching the light and shadows pass over the glassy surface. His brother didn't reply. "I'm sorry that happened. He mustn't have stuck to his plan." Still Sherlock remained silent, watching through the opposite window. "It's not too long now, you said so yourself. You shouldn't worry about him. He seemed-"

"His limp has returned, as well as his tremors, with migraines to even everything out. He speaks and stands with that hardened military default, hasn't slept properly in months, and doesn't usually cook his own food. He spends most of the day alternating between the sofa, the chair and the kitchen table. He gets the newspaper but doesn't read it – he's keeping up the appearance of being healthy but is falling short in effort. The only time he goes out is to visit his therapist and buy food. He hasn't had a girlfriend for months, or seen much of his friends at all." He lists John's symptoms with bitterness, guilt and shame. They were deductions he hated making.

"He is an injured man."

"I had no idea he would be so affected."

"Did you really?"

* * *

John spent an hour with Lestrade, devising a case, working out the little that they could with what they had, and how exactly to get more information. He had to say, even though it was all very sudden and now every second sentence contained a "Sherlock", he felt happier.

He went home in the early afternoon, after Lestrade's lunch break, his heels lighter and his head clearer. When he arrived in the flat, he sat down and read over the notes again. He saw something lying on the floor, almost out of view, and walked over to pick it up.

He felt as if a wave had been swelling up behind him and he watched, helpless, as it crashed over his head and swallowed up his senses.

...

"What's this?" He held it up in his fist. "It was on my floor." Mycroft sat up in his chair, hiding his surprise. John looked him straight in the eyes.

"It's-"

"It's the magnifying thing. Yes. And it was on my floor." John held his gaze and Mycroft returned it dubiously.

"I don't know what you're-"

"It wasn't in the flat at all, it was missing, it was his, and now I find it on my floor."

"I assure you I didn't bring or take anything from your flat."

"_You_ didn't." He said, fiercely but still not sure. "Then who did?"

"What do you think?" Mycroft replied in a snarky tone, a defence against aggression. John sighed and shook his head.

"I don't know. I don't. But I want an explanation."

"I don't see what there is to explain, John-"

"Don't-" John cut him short, squeezing his eyes and frowning. "It's just like him, isn't it?" He said quietly. "Just like him." God, he was just getting over it. So close. He didn't need this. Mycroft stared at him incredulously. "I mean obviously it wasn't _him _but could it be anyone else? There's just so much that wasn't explained. And with all these criminal gangs collapsing, I don't know what to think. I don't know if it was his doing somehow, if by what he did he somehow-"

"No, John." Mycroft spoke quickly. "No, I'm sorry. I've already told you. I would like just as much as you to pin this on a criminal but I'm afraid there is none. There is nobody to blame."

"He had a lot of enemies." He said. He knew he'd been through this all before but something was still missing. It just didn't make sense.

"That much is true, but we have checked every source we have. He was alone on that roof and had no contact with Moriarty since you were at Miss Riley's house. He was not forced. If you knew how much detail we went into for this, maybe you'd-"

"Okay. Okay, I'll take your word for it, Mr British Government. But if you're lying and there's something I don't know, I'd like to know it. For my own sake." Mycroft was silenced by John's last comment. He looked away for a long moment, thinking. His job, as allocated to him by his brother, was to keep the doctor safe. Would this keep him safe, or would the truth? Then, quietly, as if confessing, he spoke.

"Alright, I'll tell-" He was cut off by a buzzing from the desk. They both glanced at the phone, shifting over the papers as it vibrated. Mycroft picked it up. _Unknown number._

"Yes?"

"_Mycroft."_ He froze, glancing at John, who was looking at him. He turned the volume down on his phone. _"Mycroft there's something that's come up. I need you to find information quickly. I wouldn't have called but this is urgent and there are a lot of details."_

"One moment." He replied, lowering the phone from his ear.

"Who is it?"

"Work." Instant reply. His mind was rushing. What was he thinking? He knew the plan, knew he could never break it. All forgiveness would disappear if he did the wrong thing. But it was so close. In the middle of a great secret, one hand movement and the game would be up. The suffering on both sides over. Even the Ice Man himself had to feel something over that. But no. _Now is not the time. Now is the time for ice._

"Hello?"

"_It's very urgent. Constituent of Moriarty. I need files and information."_

"I'm unable to attend any meetings at the moment. Apologies."

"_What? No, just information. It's about a 'Moran'."_

"I'll call again at a better time. Goodbye." He hung up and threw the phone on the table, not making any eye contact.

"So?" John said, still anxious. "What were you saying?"

"I'm sorry." Mycroft replied, folding his hands together. John frowned.

"About what?"

"It was me." His face showed guilt and reserve, and apology.

"No." John shook his head insistently. "You're just saying that."

"I didn't want to tell you earlier."

"No, no."

"I took it out of a box to look at. It must have slipped onto the floor." He spoke quietly. "I'm very sorry, John. I didn't think about it."

John was still, his face and his body held fast. You could see it in his eyes. The slow surrender.

* * *

"_I have just received a visit from John." _Sherlock held the phone to his ear but didn't reply.

"_He found your magnifier in the flat. It gave him hope." _When did he..? Right. Damn. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he let that happen? It was going as planned. He berated himself as he spoke with a quick and harsh tongue, barely thinking about what he was saying.

"Don't reprimand me. You miscalculated the time."

"_I'm just letting you know. But he still believes you are dead." _He didn't reply. No need._ "How long now?"_

He thought about it. Probably couldn't measure a time frame properly. He had no idea how hard the last few would be to find. "Three more."

"_Good. Do be careful." _Mycroft hung up and Sherlock tossed his phone on the table. Of course he would be careful.

* * *

He had always been a good soldier, always known what battles to fight, which ones to leave, and which to amend. But as he sat, on his couch, staring at the file in front of him, he wondered if it which would be the better option in this case. Would it be better for him to simply leave it and get on with his life? Could he? He wanted himself, but also the public, to remember Sherlock well, and even if he could just try to clear his name…

He sighed. They had already tried this before, just after St Bart's. They could find nothing. Mycroft had people looking for information but they never got anything, and when Lestrade had been demoted, there was no way of investigating. Nobody else in the police force was fond of Sherlock, and John soon became sick of the looks he got – both the pity and the disbelief. So he stopped going and tried to forget about it.

He was lost in thought, his hands over his eyes, when his phone buzzed and he received a message.

_Looked into it a bit further, found some information. When do you want to meet up?_

To hell with it.

_Tomorrow._

* * *

**Okay, so I hope you liked it. This chapter turned out very long, but there wasn't really a place that I could break it off and I didn't want just another sort of introduction chapter. So here it all is. :)**


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